


The Book of Infinities

by mrrdith1396



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death Forgot to Creep, Rocking in perpetual purity, blue lips, lilac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrrdith1396/pseuds/mrrdith1396
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's a crazy idea: What if a girl was somehow her own grandmother? In this story, a girl is unwittingly raised by the older, future version of herself. Because of this, Death feels cheated and comes after them, thus starting a journey of epic sci-fi fantasy where the universe itself is all starting to crumble. Why did her grandmother (aka: herself) do this? What happens when Death literally comes knocking on their door? Follow the story of Myra Lewis as she learns about her past, present, and future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of Infinities

         The smell of bacon grease singed the air, mingling with the continuous hissing of the raw strips as they slid and popped across the pan—controlled by the same fry cook that had once walked in, fresh and young, fifty-two years ago. On the other side of the divider, coffee slushed around in the pot as the waitress, Myra, carried it, steaming droplets overriding the rim in a contained tidal wave and searing her fingers wrapped tightly around the handle. It was too early for these sounds and smells: so early that even the sun hadn’t come up to investigate. So early that the only customers in the broken down old diner were worn out truck drivers traversing the ever-winding Highway 53 and ancient alcoholics who had given up on life and sobriety. They sat there, men of the rode and of the bars, perched like cracking skeletons bent underneath the winds of suffering and time. They were lonely, and this was the gathering of people doomed to a life of solitude, whether by necessity or choice made no difference. They were all lonely together and among their tired glances was a slight glint of understanding.

     Myra, her hands burned and spotted red with raw spots, refilled their coffee mugs and took their orders, her voice low and smoky like the cigarette smoke that clung to the curtains and walls and tiled floors. She never spoke loudly in this place, not at this early time when something as loud as a raised voice could threaten to shatter their vague existence. She was trapped there, she knew, and there was nothing she could do about it.

     She thought of her grandmother, sitting at home and knitting; the old woman would sit for hours in her rocking chair, spinning fantastic scenes and creatures out of yarn. Myra had vivid memories of owls with human hands for feet, horses with teeth like a shark, men who dissolved as easily as shadows… so many fantasies and fictitious beings that Myra sometimes felt like her childhood had been something of a novel, something that maybe had never been quite real. In this diner and county and run-down town, Myra couldn’t help but feel that none of them existed: they were a scene, a glimmering thought like those of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, where nothing existed and everything was already written down. It was unsettling and had always been so, and all Myra could think of was her grandmother, rocking and rocking in her chair and creating creatures that might or might not be real.

     High school had been no different, that era of forced coalition between adults and children, both of whom were far from caring about the Pythagorean Theorem and the Treaty of Versailles. It was instead a time of parties and rebellion, of heroine that coursed through withering veins and bath salts that left the brain either begging for more or so distraught that it could never make sense of anything again. High school was a haze now, just as it had been then, and even in those four years, in those midnight hours of Myra’s life, she had thought of her grandmother. The fantastic creatures appeared on the ceilings of dingy bedrooms and the moldy tiles of bathrooms. They appeared in the reverberations of music blasting from expensive speakers, stolen from people who probably belonged to the haze as well. The creatures and her grandmother appeared in every scene, in every instance, in every sin-ridden thought and circumstance that dictated Myra’s life both then and now. High school was a haze; Jim Clark was nothing but a fantasy, a distant figure who took her to the prom, the movies, and the back of his truck. He was like those dissolving men, fading bit by bit, crumbling like sand cupped in her palm. There were times, so deluded by the feeling of vacancy and inexistence and the spaces between her fingers swollen with needle marks, that Myra would close her eyes and think that it was with the dissolving men that she sinned in the back of Jim’s truck. She would feel his skin underneath her fingers and be certain that it was crumbling, falling away and decomposing into shadow.

     But when she opened her eyes it was always to Jim.

     And Myra would think of her grandmother, her sweet grandmother, rocking and rocking in her perpetual purity.

     One of the truck drivers coughed, a thick and wet sound. Myra went to his table and asked if he wanted some water.

     “No,” He grunted, touching his chest gingerly. He took out a cigarette. The earthly powers-that-be had long ago banned cigarettes from restaurants; the distressed cry of those who hated the smell and daintily coughed out the second-hand smoke was heard by those they voted in, and those faceless beings set out on the glorious and noble cause to save the lungs of strangers. But this diner, located in Lilac, Tennessee just underneath the Blue Ridge Mountains where moonshine was still sold and the Confederate flag wasn’t an insult, chose not to heed those faceless beings. They sided with the rights of the businessmen, and had not lost any sleep over it.

     The truck driver lit the cigarette. “Wouldn’t you know it,” He said. “But I bet I’m dying of lung cancer.”

     Myra paused. “I think you would know.” She said.

     He shrugged. “You’d be surprised what people won’t see because they don’t want to.” He looked her up and down and then sighed, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug. His eyes dove like a pair of broken mermaids, swimming deeper and deeper into the never-ending depths of consciousness. Myra had seen that look before many times. It used to make her nervous, because that sort of stare implied complete desolation—the sort of stare that was acquired through terrible experience. But now Myra knew better: now she knew that this was the look given to those with no one else to talk to.

     Myra turned around and trudged to the back of the diner. She sat down behind the counter, in front of the short-order window where Steve the fry cook was flipping sausage patties on the grill. Myra watched him for a moment and noticed that his wedding ring wasn’t flashing in the fluorescent lights. It hadn’t for the past three days.

     The young waitress chewed on her lip for a moment and then said, “How’s Laura?”

     Steve’s fingers tightened into a fist around the spatula. “Wouldn’t know.” He said. “Last I seen her, she was writin’ up divorce papers, sittin’ there with her fancy-ass lawyer from Johnson City.”

     “Oh.” Myra said. The sound of grease popping filled the air between them. “I’m sorry.” Myra said at last.

     “I’m not,” Steve said, but he choked when he said it. From the way he spoke, Myra knew that he still had Laura’s picture in his wallet, the one with their daughter who went off to work in Nashville for some record company. Myra thought of the girl so far off, and she wondered if the daughter would be able to feel the sting of her parents’ dissolution.

     “How’s your daughter taking it?”

     Steve tapped his spatula against the edge of the grill, his eyes fixated on the single patty lying there. “Me and her never really got along.” He said. “She wouldn’t talk to me if I was dying.”

     Once again, Myra was silent, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sorry,” was all she could think of.

     “Yeah, well,” Steve said, his pupils burning holes into the solitary sausage patty. “We’re all real sorry.” He looked up at Myra, and there was anguish in his eyes. “Did your parents screw you over, too?”

     Just then, the bell above the door dinged and Myra was saved from having to answer. She stood from her chair and snatched the coffeepot so fast that she was awarded another wave of burns. She went around the counter to see the customer, who had sat down in a booth not far from the trucker with mermaid eyes. The customer was hunched in his seat, noticeably thin through the black jacket he wore, the hood covering his head. He didn’t move, not until Myra approached the table and cleared her throat.

     He turned his head to look at her and that’s when suddenly the breath stopped in her throat. It did more than stop, it _froze_.

     Though Myra had never been there and had no wish to go, the face of the man immediately reminded her of Antarctica: vast and white and empty, freezing with violent gusts of snow and wind that brought death to even the most vital of creatures. The man was young, younger than she’d thought, and with accents of black that she now noticed: the black color of his eyes, the black wounds underneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless, endless nights, the black of his hair that poked out from underneath his hood. He looked at her and his eyes narrowed as his mouth curved into a thin crescent moon of a smile. “Ah yes,” He said and his voice produced a shudder down her spine. His voice was a croak. “You’re going to ask me for my order.” He leaned closer to her, his frail body sliding across the booth. “But I’m afraid that what I’ve come here for, you’d get into trouble for giving me.”

   She held up the pot. “It’s just coffee.” She said, watching him suspiciously. She didn’t smell any drugs on him and he didn’t sound high, but Myra knew an addict when she saw one. Teenagers liked to use this diner as a meeting place, a place to do the things that Myra had once done as well. Now, however, it was her turn to be the one to call the police.

     But the man only smiled, revealing perfectly white and even teeth. “Just coffee,” He laughed, a creaking sound that splintered in the silence and jabbed it. “If it’s just coffee, then by all means pour away!” He chortled and watched as she fetched a mug and reached out to pour the coffee.

     In her withdrawal, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Surprised, she dropped the coffeepot and it shattered, barely missing his feet. But the man didn’t flinch. He turned her hand over to reveal the blue mapping of her veins. With his other hand, he traced the intricate network.

     “Sir, let go of me-” He looked at her and once more the breath froze in her throat.

     He returned his gaze to her arm. “So lovely,” He said, as if marveling over a piece of artwork. He closed his eyes and brought her wrist to his nose. He took a deep breath. “You can’t hear it because you’re ignorant, but let me tell you that your blood is rushing strong and healthy through your veins. I can hear it, I can hear the language of your heart, and what a sad, unsatisfied language it speaks.”

     “Please, sir,” She whispered. “The fry cook can see us from the window, he’ll call the cops-”

     “I’m not worried about your police force, your men-at-arms.” He said. “I’m not worried at all about what they’ll see.” He didn’t open his eyes, but she was close enough to him to see his eyeballs moving underneath the lids. “So strange,” He said, sounding amused. “That your heart beats so strongly when the time is coming near, when it approaches and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

     She swallowed. “I’ll scream.”

     “Scream, then.” He said and pressed his lips against her wrist. “When you scream, adrenaline will rush through your body. Your heart will pump harder, faster, and the blood will be pushed through your body with even more force than it is already. Scream, I implore you.”

     She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She was frozen, like those icebergs floating in the Arctic. It felt to her, as she looked at this man, that everything moved so very slowly. Time crawled on its stomach, its belly scraping the ground like a snake. The man was the only thing that felt real, that moved with unnatural grace as his fingers tiptoed along the intricacies of her veins. His breath came in a rush that was a sigh, and a violent shudder passed through his body. He released her wrist and finally opened his eyes.

     “Well then,” He said in his soft voice. His eyes moved from her to the trucker with mermaid eyes. Myra watched as the black-haired man got up from his seat, walked through the glass and coffee, and crouched beside the trucker. The trucker appeared to have fallen asleep, his head slumped against his chest.

     “Sometimes they fall asleep.” Myra said. She glanced around, but no one seemed to notice the strange man.

     “Yes,” The black-haired man murmured, and he stroked the trucker’s hand almost lovingly. The cigarette still trailed smoke between his fingers. “He is finally resting.” He bowed his own head for a moment, allowing it to rest on his thin chest. Then he leaned forward and, with Myra watching in shock, kissed the man lightly on the mouth. When the black-haired man stood, there was something blue glowing on his mouth, and he licked his lips. He grinned wolfishly at Myra.

     She stared at him. If she’d still had the coffeepot, she would have dropped it a second time. “I don’t-did you…” She swallowed, glancing at the trucker who was still sleeping, and at the back of Steve’s head in the kitchen. “Did you know him?”

     “Oh yes,” The black-haired man said. “I know all of you. I’ve read all of your endings.” He closed his eyes. For a flickering moment, Myra was sure that he looked younger, that there were droplets of color in his cheeks. But then the wind blew and he was once again a barren wasteland. He took the cigarette from between the man’s fingers and brought it to his lips. “You may call your police force now, Myra. I have another appointment across town.” He flashed his white teeth around the cigarette and then walked around her and out of the diner.

     Myra turned and ran to the door, pushing it open to feel a cold explosion of air against her face.

     The man was nowhere to be seen.

     “Hey, Myra!” Steve yelled from the kitchen. “Where you goin’?”

     “The man,” Myra said. “The black-haired man, didn’t you see him?”

     “Who?” By now, the diner had started to stir. The truckers and alcoholics blinked and glared at Myra through slitted eyes. Steve was pressed against the edge of the window. “There weren’t no ‘black-haired man.’ What’s wrong with you?”

     She didn’t answer. She stood there for a moment, the cold needle tips of wind dancing across her face, and then ran to the trucker. She shook him. “Sir,” She said. “Sir, are you awake?”

     No answer.

     She grabbed the man’s hand. His fingers were cool and stiff. She pressed her ear against his chest and didn’t hear a heartbeat.

     “Myra!” Steve barked. “Answer me, girl.”

     Myra leaned back, her breath rushing out in a windstorm. “I think he’s dead.” She looked back at the fry cook, at the eyes that were now all on her. “He’s not breathing.” She stood to her feet as Steve rushed from the kitchen and joined her, staring at the man whose face was quickly losing color.

     They were no longer staring at a man, but at a corpse.

     “I’ll be damned,” Steve muttered. “Call 9-1-1. Somebody, call the cops.” One of the truckers pulled out a cell phone and as his voice filled in the background, Steve turned to the waitress. “What happened?”

     “The black-haired man,” Myra said. “I think… I think he killed him somehow.”

     “Myra,” Steve said. “There weren’t no man.”

     “Yes, there was. I saw him plain as d-”

     “I looked when you dropped the pot. You was alone, by the booth. What’s got in your head, girl?”

     “No.” She felt her blood freeze, as though the mysterious man was still there and staring at her with his wintry eyes. “No, he was here. He said he had an appointment across town-”

     Red and blue lights flooded the windows, flashing in and out. A siren wailed and they all watched as men in uniforms cast their shadows against the glass. “Listen to me,” Steve said, after a moment. “Don’t say nothing to anyone. They’ll think you’ve gone crazy. You hear me?”

     Myra rubbed her wrist. She could still feel those long, cold fingers wrapped against her flesh. So cold, they burned. So cold, they were hard as rock. He hadn’t come from her imagination. He had been real, as real as anything could be in Lilac, Tennessee.

     “Myra?”

     “Yeah,” She said. “I hear you.”

 

         It took two days for the article to show up in the newspaper, the tiny tribunal dubbed the _Lilac Liaison_ to anyone who read it. Between Myra and her grandmother, news of the outside world was hardly bothered with. Wars, presidents, disasters, didn’t bother them in the small brick house where the ivy climbed up to the windowsills and ate at the mortar. The television was in black and white (sometimes yellow) and had an echo whenever an actor or actress spoke. Every once in a while, Myra would turn on the TV just to feel a closeness with the world in which they lived, but her grandmother would just cluck her tongue in rhythm to the rocking chair.

     “I’ve heard this was a good movie.” Myra said. “We should watch it.”

     “It isn’t real, dear.” Her grandmother would respond as she embroidered. “It’s all just garbage from someone’s head.”

     “If you think about it,” Myra said. “Everything is just garbage from someone’s head. Even your embroidery is just bits of trash from your own mind.”

     Her grandmother would just smile, her eyes twinkling as if holding tears. “Watch the movie if you’d like.” She said. “It matters not to me.”

     But Myra never did. There was no use, when she could feel the old woman’s disapproval burning into the screen. The old woman hadn’t grown up with TV or movie stars, and Myra tried to remind herself of that. But her grandmother wasn’t really that old, in her early sixties, and she moved with a surprising agility whenever she decided to move from her rocking chair. Whenever Myra studied her face, she couldn’t help but see the youth that her grandmother seemed determined to hide, the vitality and strength that refused to be completely concealed. Even so, her grandmother rarely left the house except to go to the grocery store to buy whatever didn’t grow in her garden.

     Instead of watching the movie, Myra would ask her grandmother to tell her a story. The older woman would stay quiet for a long time, considering. Sometimes she never responded, but most of the time she had a fantastic story to tell, stories that were just as fantastic as the creatures she spun with thread.

     And so the old woman was surprised when she saw the newspaper on the kitchen table. “What is this?” She asked, picking it up. “Who is Lionel Norris?”

     Myra didn’t look up from the cereal. She hadn’t told her grandmother about the black-haired man. As the days passed and she was freed from the oppressive silence of the diner, Myra decided that she really had gone crazy. There had been no murder, only a blockage in the aortic valve. “He’s the man who died at the diner a couple days ago.” She answered her grandmother. “Remember? I told you about him.”

     “Oh yes.” Her grandmother, whose name was Mary Anne Lewis, said. She sipped at her tea. She only drank hot tea, and never the sweet tea that the South was so well known for. This morning, her tea smelled like peppermint. “I remember.”

     Myra waited a moment, trying to find her voice amid the images of blue lips and a cigarette perched between perfect teeth. “The article said that it was a heart attack.” She said. “It happened so suddenly.”

     Her grandmother patted her hand in sympathy. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

     Myra swallowed a mouthful of cereal. “Me too.”

     Her grandmother sighed. “Sometimes, death comes so quickly. He forgets how to creep.” Her words caused a shudder to shoot down her daughter’s spine, but the old woman didn’t notice. Instead, she took a sip of her tea and rinsed out the cup. “I’m going to work in the garden for a while.”

     “Ok.” Myra bent her head over her cereal, listening as her grandmother’s footsteps paused at the back door.

     “What are you going to do today, dear?”

     “I used up the last of the milk.” Myra said. “I’ll walk down to the store and get another carton.”

     “Be careful,” Her grandmother said. “Watch the narrow roads.” She hesitated, almost as if to say something else, but she swallowed whatever it was and disappeared outside. Myra remained where she was, chewing her cereal and staring at the door where her grandmother had stood. They didn’t own a car; it was too expensive, what with the gas prices that loved nothing more than to shoot up like an ill-timed firecracker, and Lilac was so small that having a car was of little use. Only those who had money and wanted their neighbors to know it owned a car. Jim Clark, for one. She shuddered whenever she saw his truck pass her as she walked along the dusty roads.

     When her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, Myra dumped it in the sink and wiped her mouth. It was hot outside, the sun bearing down and soaking into the moisture that clung to the air. Northeast Tennessee wasn’t known for its humidity or scorching summers, but those that lived there knew well of the sticky days and the heat that made you sick. Summer hit with a vengeance after the long, cruel winters, and the dust and humidity clung to Myra’s skin as she walked. The mountains, differing shades of blue, towered in the distance, rolling like the hills that she climbed, up and down and up. She sang under her breath, nonsense songs that her grandmother had taught her, songs that made no sense and that she hadn’t sung around anyone else since kindergarten, when they all laughed at her. Somewhere, a mockingbird harmonized, and she thought she saw a flash of black and white feathers.

     It was peaceful as she walked. No cars appeared, no person called or hollered. It was too hot for jokes or errands; it seemed that only Myra Lewis dared to face the heat.

     The bell jingled as she entered the Blue Ridge General Store. The sound reminded her of two mornings ago, when the trucker with mermaid eyes had met the black-haired man.

     Myra shook away the thought.

     “Mornin’, Myra.” The man behind the counter flipped his wrist in greeting. He didn’t look up from his crossword.

     “Morning, Mr. Everette.” Myra said.

     “How’s Mary Anne?”

     “The same.” Myra said. “She’s working in her garden today.”

     Mr. Everette smacked his lips. “Be sure to tell her I’d like another jar of her tomatoes. I’ll give her three spools of thread for it, like I did last time.”

     “I’ll do that.” Myra said, and went to the refrigerators in the back of the store. The air conditioning hummed over her head. The lights flickered and Myra felt sweat tingling on her arms. She opened the refrigerator door and selected a carton of skim milk, embracing the cold plastic against her fingers. She closed the door, and saw the reflection of the black-haired man standing just behind her.

     She whirled around, milk carton clutched to her chest.

     There was no one there.

     Swallowing past the thick taste of iron in her mouth, Myra hurried to the cash register. She didn’t speak as Mr. Everette rung it up. He raised an eyebrow. “You ok there, Myra? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

     “I’m fine.” Myra said, and handed him the three dollars and fifty cents. He bagged the milk and watched her walk to the door.

     “You want me to drive you home?” He called after her.

     “No, thank you.” Myra said over her shoulder. “Have a good day, Mr. Everette.” She closed the door before he could say anything else and she started on her way home. She walked faster than she did before, her heart hammering in time with her steps. Her mind kept flashing back to the reflection in the refrigerator door, and she pressed her lips into a thin line of refusal.

     It was hot, and she was tired. She hadn’t slept well the past couple of nights. As a matter of fact, she was going straight home to take a nap. She was obviously tired, exhausted, and this was her body’s way of telling her to rest.

     She wished it would find a less scary, more conventional way of telling her.

     Myra walked in silence. She didn’t feel much like singing anymore, and even the birds were silent as she walked.

     The only sound was a car horn, blaring at her as it slowed to a crawl beside her. Myra didn’t have to look to see who it was.

     “Well, look who it is.” Jim Clark said, resting his arm against the open window. “If it ain’t Myra Lewis.”

     “Hello, Jim.” Myra said.

     “What you out walkin’ the roads for?”

     She held up the carton of milk.

     He laughed, the same laugh Myra remembered from high school. “Why don’t you hop in? The milk’s going to spoil in this heat.” She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. He laughed again. “I’ll take you straight home.”

     She looked back at the road. “No, thank you.”

     “As stubborn as ever.” He said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

    “Neither of us have.” Myra said, and it was true. Jim looked exactly the same, and Myra knew that he was doing exactly what he used to do in high school. Bars, football in the park, and beating up girls.

     “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.” Jim said. She didn’t respond. “Come on, Myra. Me and you had a good thing goin’. You remember the good times, right?” He lowered his voice. “I’ve missed you.”

     She stopped at the fork in the road. “This is my turn.” She said. “Goodbye, Jim.”

     “Carter and Will are meetin’ up at the field tonight. Grace will be there, too. You want to come?”

     Myra turned to face him fully. He was leaning against the steering wheel, watching her. There was a time when she’d been mesmerized by his eyes, when his eyes had been the only thing she’d ever wanted to see. She’d wanted to swim in them. “Jim,” She said. “I d-”

     But she stopped because suddenly she was freezing, a blanket of ice and winter wrapping around her and squeezing, squeezing.

     Jim furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”

     Myra blinked, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. “N-nothing.” She said, and she thought she saw another flash of black and white. “Don’t follow me, Jim. If you do, I’ll call the police just like I did last time.” She turned on her heel and ran down the road, kicking up dust and finally escaping the bitter cold. She expected to hear Jim’s truck right behind her, but she didn’t. The silence had returned.

     She rounded the corner and there was the road to her house, winding deep into the woods. She and her grandmother lived alone, without any neighbors for two miles in both directions. The house used to be a shack, built by a Melungeon family to sell their homemade moonshine—a secret place that hadn’t been discovered but abandoned for some unknown reason. Her grandmother fixed the place up, rebuilding and adding on until it was no longer a shack but a very small house. Myra grew up in it. The few times they’d ordered a pizza, the delivery man had gotten lost, and there were days when the mailman didn’t feel like hiking to their house and they wouldn’t receive their mail on time. Her grandmother enjoyed their isolation, and Myra had grown indifferent to it. She used to be afraid that something would happen, (a rampant ax murderer bursting into the house, for instance) and there would be no one to help them. But those fears melted in the face of her grandmother’s unerring calm. “We’ll be just fine, Myra.” She would say. “Just fine.”

     Even though Mary Anne Lewis was a small woman, slight and light as a bird, her words soothed her granddaughter. Myra would curl up in her grandmother’s arms and listen to the old woman’s heartbeat, a strange tune that was slower and deeper than most others. It wasn’t until Myra heard Jim Clark’s heart that she realized that both she and her grandmother were somehow different. When she was younger, Myra would oftentimes wonder about her parents and if they had been different, too.

     But her grandmother never talked about her son and his wife, and Myra knew better than to ask. All her life, it had only been she and her grandmother, and Myra grew to accept that. It was why she didn’t go to college, why any friends she once had fell away and were forgotten. It was why Myra forgot to complain about how secluded their house was.

     Besides, nothing tragic had happened yet.

     Myra ran into the house, shivering and panting all at once. Through the open window, she could hear her grandmother singing in the garden. Myra stood in the living room for several long minutes and waited for the winter to come back. It didn’t.

     It was then that Myra remembered the milk, losing its chill in her hands. She licked her lips and went into the kitchen. She went to the refrigerator and put the milk between the freshly picked okra and a carton of eggs.

     When she turned around, he was sitting at the kitchen table.

     She jumped backwards, hitting the refrigerator.

     “My, my, if it isn’t the waitress.” He smirked and shook his head. He looked different than he had at the diner. He was still incredibly thin, and despite the heat he wore the same black hoodie. But the circles underneath his eyes were gone, and she thought he looked stronger, healthier. His voice was slightly smoother and didn’t croak so much as grate.

     She swallowed past the ice cube growing in her throat. “You’re not real.” She said.

     He lifted an eyebrow. “You would be amazed by how many people think so. They deny me right until the very end, when even their own bodies turn against them and I am their only relief.” He sighed. “Sometimes it’s funny and sometimes it’s sad. But I enjoy a good tragedy, don’t you?”

     “No.”

     “You might want to start.” He leaned back in the chair. “I can see your body aging, just like a winemaker can smell the grapes fermenting.”

     “You’re either not real, or you killed Lionel Norris.” Myra said. “Those are the only two options.”

     He rolled his eyes. “Dearest Myra,” He said, and he sounded exacerbated. “Why is it you can’t see what’s right in front of your face? Have you been with the humans too long? Has their delicious mix of arrogance and ignorance finally intoxicated you?”

     Myra shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

     He tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “I can’t explain everything to you. It’s not my place, nor do I have the interest. So. Why don’t you entertain your hallucination a while longer?” He looked around at the kitchen. “Is this where the great Bookkeeper has been hiding?”

   Myra only stared at him.

     He cocked his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “I remember you when you were a little girl, a very little girl.” He said. “I almost took you then, but it wasn’t the time. Do you remember me?”

     “No.” Myra said. “I’ve never seen you before.”

     “Liar.”

     Anger blazed through her, chasing away the cold for only a moment. “I would remember seeing something like _you_.”

     He laughed. “Oh no, Myra dear, that’s not what I meant. You are not lying to _me_ , you are lying to _yourself_.” He glanced up at the ceiling, at the crack that ran from the light fixture to the cabinet. “I have seen many a person lie to themselves.” He said.

     Myra swallowed. Her palms were still pressed against the refrigerator, but now she took a step forward. Only a step. “Who are you?”

     He smiled, revealing his perfect, glittering teeth. “Who are _you_?”

     “Myra Lewis.”

     “If we’re only going by names, then I don’t see how any of it matters. If we’re only going by names, then you must know that I have hundreds of them. _Vdekje, Konec, Sterfgeval, Mort, Kifo, Moartea, Marwolaeth,_ are only a few of them.” He stretched his arms, and she noticed what long fingers he had, long and delicate and bony. “Let’s us ask more pertinent questions.”

     Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to speak. She would not be intimidated by her own hallucination. “Why are you here?”

     His eyes lit up and he straightened in his chair. “Ah, now you’ve done it! You’ve hit the nail on the head, as I’ve heard it said here on earth. That is finally the right question to ask.”

     “Are you going to give me the answer?”

     “I feel as though I already have.” He said. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

     “But you haven’t told me anything!”

     “You weren’t listening. As I recall, you never listened.” He leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I must remember, you do not see as I do. It is not all laid bare before you as it is for me. You see, I’ve read as far as there is to go, and so to me it is all obvious, and I forget that not all have that privilege. So I will take pity on you.” A grin, the same grin he’d given her at the diner, spread across his face. “I’ve come to kiss you, Myra Lewis.”

     The back door slammed, bringing with it a rush of hot air. The black-haired man smiled, and both he and Myra turned to look at her grandmother.

     She was holding her watering can, her eyes fixed on the man sitting at her table. She was dressed in her overalls, the ones that were shorts, and there was dirt on her knees. Her sunhat perched on her head, and Myra thought of the countless times she’d seen that hat. “Morryn.” She said, and her voice made Myra’s heart skip a beat. She’d never heard such fear and… and _anger_ in her grandmother’s voice.

     “Mary Anne,” He said in return. “What an interesting name; so generic. But as I was just telling your _granddaughter_ , names aren’t particularly important in this instance.” He eyed her attire. “I knew you were hiding, but I didn’t expect you to so convincingly play the part.” He laughed.

     Her grandmother wasn’t amused. Her eyes flashed. “You are not welcome here.” She said. “Whatever your manner, whatever your business-”

     “You know my business,” He said. “Even you cannot escape it.” His eyes slid from her to Myra. “You have evaded me for too long, _Mary Anne_. You have robbed me my dues, and I am here to demand payment.”

     Myra turned to her grandmother. “You know this… this _thing_?”

     “Everyone knows me.” He said. “Though not all can see me.” He stood to his feet. “This little chat has been rather enjoyable. Most times I do not say a word, but I felt that this occasion deserved a little courtesy.” He stood to his feet and faced Myra. “It shall be painless,” He said. “That is more than I’ve offered many others.” He moved so quickly that Myra didn’t see him take a step. Suddenly he was there, and her face was in his hands.

     “Grandmother!” She screamed.

     He laughed. “There’s nothing-” His laugh turned into a shriek. His body arched against hers and she screamed again, because his skin was so cold that it burned and she was sure that he was going to burn through her, that this pain could only mean that he was searing right into her bones-

     The kitchen was enveloped in a flash of green light, so painful that Myra squeezed her eyes shut.

     Something clattered to Myra’s feet.

     After an agonizing moment, Myra opened her eyes. On the ground, the tip touching her shoe, was a silver knife. Myra had used it to cut her grandmother’s produce numerous times.

     But it hadn’t ever glowed green, as it was doing now.

     She bent to pick it up, her fingers shaking.

     “Don’t touch it!” Her grandmother said, lunging across the room. Myra jerked back and looked up at the old woman. “Don’t ever touch it when it’s green.” She kicked the knife away with her shoe.

     Myra couldn’t stop herself from shaking. “Grandmother,” She whispered. “Please. Was that real, what just happened?”

   Her grandmother’s eyes softened until there were tears glittering there. “More real than anything else.” She said. “More so than those movies you used to love.”

     Before she could open her mouth to say anything else, Myra burst into tears. She fell against the refrigerator and slid to the ground. Her grandmother crouched beside of her, rubbing her back.


End file.
